She feels her heart breaking.
She didn't think it was possible, she hardly remembers them. She never cried, never missed them,
behaved like if everything had always been the same. Wasn't afraid to talk about it, didn't feel anything in doing it.
Yet, at that moment, just heard the horrible truth, she feels her heart destroyed into many small
fragments, scattered on the ground.
It's not the consciousness that her parents are really dead, she already suspected it for some time.
Rather, it's that look, authoritarian but still sweet, of a grandfather who often came back and hugged
his grandchildren, the only adult figure who could inspire them. But his hands are stained with
blood, his goodness hides the cruelty of killing his own daughter and her husband, in order not to be
discovered.
They are both orphans, and it's because of their own grandfather, who they loved unconsciously all
the time.
Hatred, anger, frustration, those fingers that tremble and want revenge.